


Comfort

by mystery_deer



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, John and Sherlock's living situation is weird but it's unexplored, M/M, Mental Health Issues, they sometimes live together and sometimes don't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 16:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystery_deer/pseuds/mystery_deer
Summary: Sherlock and John care for each other when they cannot care for themselves.





	1. Rain

It was raining when Sherlock hurried up the stairs of his flat, drenched to the bone and shivering. His normally carefully styled hair had loosened and now clung to his face wherever there was space available.

“Watson.” He called out, locking the door behind him. “Are you-” He paused when he saw the man sitting slumped over in his chair, leg outstretched and resting on a stool. Ah, bad day then.

“Would you like some tea?” He asked, not waiting for a reply. It was rare to get one when he was like this. He closed the windows so the sound of the rain didn’t intrude on their home any longer before filling the kettle and setting it to boil. “I’ve solved that case about the Lavender that’s been plaguing the Cossack’s.” he said, walking to the spare bedroom that had once been Watson’s. He pulled the blanket from the bed and walked back into the living room to drape it over his flatmate’s body. 

Thunder rumbled, so distant it was more comforting than alarming. “I see you’ve gotten some mail.” Sherlock remarked nodding towards the open letter on the side table. 

“He died, Holmes.” Watson said, voice low and raw as if it had been used vigorously in the other man’s absence. “My old mate. I knew him since we were kids.” He looked forward towards the unlit fireplace but Sherlock could tell that he was not seeing it. He was not here in the flat with him.

They were both on the battlefield. On the sidelines and there were loud sounds from everywhere. It was pouring rain and the doctor couldn’t tell if his hands were slick with water or blood and his teeth chattered from the cold. In the distance the rumble could be a bomb erupting from the ground or a shock of thunder crashing from above. His leg radiated white-hot pain that left him half-blind and he couldn’t move it.   
They both watched John Watson drag himself blindly forward as soldiers screamed and cried and called out to him. Reached out to him and pleaded with him to pleasepleaseplease do anything please doc it hurts please John please and by the time he reached the grass his hands were torn and stinging from the mud that had seeped into the cuts.

He looked down, tears and rainwater drenching his face and his eyes were red and his leg didn't exist anymore it was just pain and pain and pain and then they saw him. 

They saw his best friend laying there. Sherlock knew of him from stories, memories that would sometimes make the doctor laugh so hard he cried. He knew his last name was Eagleton and he had once at ten years old brought a piglet to school and that he had two missing teeth, one from a fight and one from disease and he knew that Watson saw him there that day-night-evening with his body twisted wrong and he’d reached out a hand, opened his mouth and died. And he knew that Watson had crawled into the hole his friend had been half-laying in, body broken and half-gone and so cold though he’d only just died. They stayed like that until Watson was found, still-alive under the corpse.

Sherlock lit the fire and attended to the shrieking kettle.

“Here you are.” He said, pouring the amber liquid and placing it on the side table. “Who died?” The fire cracked happily as it ate up the wood that fueled it.

“Teddy- Theodore Bushwick.” He spoke the name carefully, letting it stand on its own. “I knew him since we were kids.”

Sherlock stayed quiet, drinking his tea and settling into his chair. He closed his eyes and hummed slightly to show he was still listening. He wished he could make the rain stop for him. In the distance they heard boys laughing and bullets raining from above, exploding from down below.

“He was a soldier. I...I.” He paused, voice welling up. “He was so PROUD. He always boasted about being in the army. About making the COUNTRY proud, his DAD proud. He-” Watson grabbed his cup of tea too violently and it spilled over the rim, burning his hand. He shouted and hurled the cup away from him and it hit the wall and shattered. The puddle thinned and slithered its way into the carpet. 

Sherlock startled and he stood but didn’t move to clean the puddle. Didn’t move anywhere. Watson sat with his body bent and began to sob quietly. Ugly, deep sobs that came from the chest. Silent except for the heaving, the ‘uh uh uh uh uh.’ Sherlock’s hand twitched and then he glided around the flat as if a spell had been broken.

He tossed a dish towel onto the puddle, kicked the shards of the cup together and then bent down to attend to Watson with the chunk of ice he’d retrieved from the icebox.

“Watson, hold this.” Nothing. “I’ve wrapped it in a shirt so it shouldn’t be too cold.” He reached out but instead of the ice he grabbed the detective’s wrist and squeezed. Not enough to hurt but enough to assure him that he was there.

“He died of shock, they said. Shellshock. Teddy.” Sherlock moved closer, allowing for Watson to hold him around the middle. He did, burying his face against the other man. “I’m sorry.” The crying man gasped, shaking.

“You have nothing to apologize for dear boy.” Sherlock assured him softly.   
“It started raining right after I read it and the rain…”  
“I know.” He said. “I know, John.”

He took one of the doctor’s hands from around him and kissed it tenderly. John looked up at him, his blue eyes still half-gray but he was seeing him. He knew he was seeing him. He smiled and John didn’t. He couldn’t yet but he would eventually. He always did eventually and Sherlock would be there when he did.

For now he would clean up what had been broken, talk too long about nothing so that the space was filled, and open the windows when the sun came out.


	2. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is struck by a sudden dreadful mood and John assists in clearing it as best he can.

John woke up one day and felt with a sudden urgency that he should visit Sherlock. He hadn’t heard from the detective in a few weeks, a length of time that usually indicated that he was either off on a solitary case or something was wrong. So that morning he closed his medical practice and hailed a cab to 221B.

His instincts proved to be correct when he found the flat a complete mess. Dishes were haphazardly piled up on the floor and the couch was covered in books and papers. Newspaper clippings were plastered to the wall and there was a rat in the corner making off with an uneaten loaf of stale bread. 

John avoided these obstacles with some difficulty given that the heavy blinds were drawn and made his way to Holmes’ room. It was as dark as the rest of the flat and there was the heady scent of uncleanness coming from the sheets. He bent down and saw that the detective was under them, curled up and sleeping.

“Holmes.” He said, gently placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking it. “Wake up.” He heard stirring but instead of waking the man instead turned the opposite way, grumbled unintelligibly and pulled the blankets closer around him. John rolled his eyes good-naturedly and tested his leg. It was strong today and Sherlock wasn’t very heavy, he especially wouldn’t be heavy now in the middle of one of his moods.

Thinking this, he scooped the man up into his arms and started for the bathroom.   
Holmes opened his eyes and made a noise that sounded halfway between a scream and laughter. His hands flew up as if ready to defend himself but once he realized what was happening he let them float up around Watson’s head. He blinked, eyes lidded and tired and John could see that half the world was lost to him.

“Hello.” Holmes murmured.   
“Hello.” John replied, setting the other man down in the tub. “How have you been?"

Holmes yawned and laid down, curling up on himself to stay warm. The tub was covered in a thin layer of dust and John could see it stirring in the air. The bathroom was one of the few spaces that couldn’t be darkened completely, the lone window small and high on the wall.   
“Fine I’ve been…” He mumbled, voice fading. “...mm.”

John left him in the bathroom for a moment to go into the living room and open the curtains. He evaluated the room and sighed, deciding to tackle it last. He had no particular want to deal with it and the more pressing situation was the bedroom since it was where Holmes spent most of his time when he'd fallen into a mood.

He kicked the mess in the hallway to the wall to allow for easier movement and opened the curtains in the bedroom as well. Once he could see he stripped the bed and changed the sheets, dragging the blankets into the living room to be washed later. For now he replaced it with the blanket from his own room. He wished he'd had to foresight to bring some personal effects as he intended to stay until Holmes' mood improved after seeing the man.

He opened the windows to get rid of the stale air and took out whatever he could identify as obvious trash. It was difficult to tell sometimes as the detective collected and discarded items depending on his fancy or interest at the time. His interest was always incredibly intense and when possessed by a subject he would study it tirelessly and speak of nothing else before in a few month's time he found a new absorption.

When John stepped back inside the bathroom he was relieved to see that the other man was exactly how he’d left him except for the fact that he’d now completely drifted off. He gently sat him up and began to help him with undressing. He’d done the same for many patients who were too injured to move without assistance and it still felt a bit odd to do it for him.

It always surprised him to see the detective in such a state. When he first encountered Holmes in such a mood he’d had to be convinced that he was not injured or in need of hospitalization.   
“I suffer from bouts of melancholy that I cannot shake.” The man had explained, sitting draped over his favorite chair. “I’ve had them since I came of age and I haven’t found anything that brings it on." 

He’d told him, after Watson had remarked that melancholy was something he'd seen most often in women, that his mother suffered from the same ailment. She would often be sent off to a country house or a relative’s to sort it out, being gone or bedridden for months at a time. She loved flowers, he recalled, more than anything and being around them was a great comfort to her.   
Whenever she had been struck by a mood, he and his brother would venture out into the fields and pick all the flowers they could hold in their arms. "When we brought them to her the maid would often scold us because we'd leave a trail of them. They overflowed from our arms. Our mother would always receive them gratefully however, and on one occasion was so moved by the gesture she leapt from her bed and sang."

When John had asked if he would like to visit the country he said no. He didn’t want to go anywhere, which was precisely the problem.

When the detective was fully undressed, John turned on the water and let it warm as he plugged the drain. Holmes looked so very pale and sickly, it hurt his heart to see.

“It’s frightfully cold.” He complained, crossing his arms and shivering. John closed the door to keep the heat in and lathered his hands with soap. 

“Yes, it is. It’s late autumn after all.” He massaged the soap into Holmes' hair, letting his nails lightly graze the detective’s scalp. He was rewarded with a slight moan as the other man sighed and relaxed into his touch. “Have you had any cases of late?” He asked, thinking that perhaps inactivity had caused him to sink into a lull.

“Tons. I haven’t been able to focus on any of them.” Holmes replied, voice rumbling with soft pleasure.   
“I could help.” He offered.  
“You have your medical practice. It keeps you busy, surely?” John lapsed into silence, wanting to speak in the romantic, flowery language of a linguist but not having the tools for it. He felt there was nothing he could say that would move the other man’s heart in the way he so longed for. He couldn't put his feelings into words without writing and revising them, polishing the coal into diamonds. 

“Close your eyes.” He said instead, filling a ceramic jug with water and pouring it over Holmes’ head. The mirror behind them steamed up and the light coming through the window had slowly turned from gray to golden.

John took the moment to admire Holmes and affirm his love to himself. He struck such a handsome profile even like this. His gaze traveled downward towards his chest which had begun caving in on itself and he sighed sadly, hoping that he'd be able to plump him up in the coming days. 

“Ah.” He heard Holmes breathe and suddenly came back to the moment. The other man’s eyes were open and wide and taking in everything in front of them. His eyelashes caught water like flowers held onto dewdrops and in the sunlight his skin seemed to glow.

John opened his mouth without meaning to and gasped softly. “Oh.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment longer before Holmes’ lip curled and his teeth began to show slowly slowly and then all at once as he laughed. John’s heart leapt and his love was again affirmed. Strong and fierce and wanting.

“It’s warm now.” The detective said, reaching up and wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders. He pressed his chest against the other man’s and the both of them were too wrapped up in one another to notice the water pooling onto the tiles and spreading across John’s waistcoat. “Is that your doing John?”

John made another noise without particular meaning and wrapped an arm around his partner, pushing the black hair out of his clearing eyes. “No, Sherlock.” He said and noted the intake of breath his Christian name elicited from the detective.  
“That is the afternoon’s doing.” And even as he said it he knew it to be false. They both knew in their hearts and minds, down to their very soul that even if it were the dead of winter this warmth would exist between them. 

It always would.


End file.
